


You Just Might Find

by Nny



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Dancing, M/M, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-17
Updated: 2017-04-17
Packaged: 2018-10-20 07:02:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10657368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nny/pseuds/Nny
Summary: Clint hadn’t been able to take his eyes off Bucky all night. It’d been a long process, a fuckload of work by Stark Industries PR, a careful manipulation of the media to get Bucky here, to have him welcome, to spare him more than the occasional flinch. He’d danced with practically every woman in the place, charmed money out of wallets, talked and smiled and flirted and made all of it look unnervingly real, and Clint -Clint wished he’d stayed home with Bruce.





	1. Clint

**Author's Note:**

  * For [asamandra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/asamandra/gifts), [felicitysmoakqueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/felicitysmoakqueen/gifts).



Everyone else seemed to be great at these things. Of course Tony could dance, he’d been raised to it, the perfect society gentleman with an exceptionally tailored tux. Natasha knew how to fit in any damned place she chose, but dancing was something else, something special with her. Her relationship with ballet was a complicated and painful one, but waltzing around the fundraiser with an impossibly rich and impossibly attractive man, Clint could see a touch of genuine pleasure on her face.

Steve and Bucky, too, were in their element. Steve could keep rhythm like a metronome, even when he was clearly talking the charity CEO’s ear off, and it was a reminder that Clint really didn’t need that he and Bucky were from a different time. Different entertainment, different attitudes, different expectations…

Clint hadn’t been able to take his eyes off Bucky all night. It’d been a long process, a fuckload of work by Stark Industries PR, a careful manipulation of the media to get Bucky here, to have him welcome, to spare him more than the occasional flinch. He’d danced with practically every woman in the place, charmed money out of wallets, talked and smiled and flirted and made all of it look unnervingly real, and Clint -

Clint wished he’d stayed home with Bruce.

“He’s just doing his job.”

Clint didn’t bother turning his head; Bucky’s current partner was wearing a dress of a fucking heartbreaking shade of blue. They looked good together.

“I’m aware,” Clint said, “and he’s looking damned fine doing it.”

Bucky in a tux was so goddamned beautiful it actually hurt, a little, in the middle of his chest. He was like something in a gallery - perfect, distant, untouchable. For Clint, anyway.

“I’m just saying,” Tony said, “PR says a relationship would help humanise him, and the Young Avengers are kicking our asses when it comes to LGBT representation. We could put together a press release, take some tasteful photos, throw a rainbow party for Pride…”

“He’d hate it,” Clint said, flat and uncompromising. “He doesn’t want this coming out.”

He turned his head enough to see Tony staring at him with the little frown between his eyebrows that said he saw a problem and was deciding on how best to fix it.

“And what about what you want?”

Clint laughed a little, rubbed a hand over his face. “Can’t always get it, as a cooler man than me once said. It’s fine. I got what I need.”

Tony sighed, opened his mouth, but Pepper waltzed past on the arm of an elderly senator and mouthed *help me* at Tony through a suspiciously fixed grin. He tucked his hands in his pockets and headed to intercept, and Clint looked around for one of those waiters with all the little crabby things.

Instead he found Bucky.

“You didn’t ask,” he said. His face was the kind of blank that meant he was having emotions too big to hide them right, but he was still as pretty as a goddamned picture, face smoothly shaved, eyes bright, hair neatly tied at the nape of his neck.

“…you to dance?” Clint said. “‘Cos that’d be subtle.”

“What I wanted.”

Clint shrugged. “Didn’t need to.”

He was aware that this thing, whatever it was between them, was temporary. That was kind of a given. Bucky had more options now than just whoever was around the tower enough, had unearthed his smile and his charm, had several social media accounts dedicated to his goddamned face. Clint had a thread on some archery forum somewhere, probably. He wasn’t the kind of person people made statements for, wasn’t the type to make irreversible changes about.

“You really fuckin’ did,” Bucky said, low, and look at that, he’d found his emotion. Apparently it was anger. Clint raised his hands.

“It’s fine, I get it, the press nightmare wouldn’t be worth it. I’m not expecting anything.”

“You didn’t *ask*.”

“What was the point?” He made a gesture, tried to cover everything that Bucky was, and everything that was him. His tux was a little too tight across the shoulders, his shirt was unbuttoned at the top and his bow tie could be, frankly, anywhere and there were crumbs from at least one type of canapé decorating his lapel.

“You’re lucky I fuckin’ love you, idiot,” Bucky said, and the world screeched to a halt.

“What?”

“Dance with me, Barton,” Bucky said, and held out his hand.

It was like a soft focus segue from a romantic film - Clint had no idea how he ended up on the dance floor, wrapped up tight in Bucky’s arms. Someone was laughing, and someone else was hissing whispers, and the paparazzi hadn’t been granted entrance but he definitely heard at least one camera phone. And it all faded into insignificance against this moment, right here.

He’d been granted rights to soft-eyed sleepy Bucky, to sweatpants Bucky, to Bucky naked and sweating and spent. And he’d taken what he was given, temporary as he’d thought it, and tried not to resent the Buckys he didn’t get.

Except… maybe he did.

“Sure about this?” He asked, low into Bucky’s ear, and it was a little late for that with how close they were dancing, how Bucky’s hand rested just below the small of his back, but he’d been told that asking was a thing he should maybe consider.

“Sure about you,” Bucky said, and Clint couldn’t do anything but kiss him, perfect and close and all his to touch.


	2. Bucky

When you hung out with Tony Stark the quality of the men’s rooms really improved. Bucky kicked his heels against the counter and wondered what the grapefruit and green tea hand lotion would do to the metal.

There was a thump on the outside of the door. Bucky had wedged it pretty well closed with a condensed stack of paper towels and the application of some brute strength. Sounded like Steve was putting his shoulder to it, but he wouldn’t want to break the damned thing, not at a fancy event like this.

There was another, softer thump. Head height. That was a surrender thump if Bucky had ever heard one; he grinned his victory and flew another paper tissue dart directly into the trash.

“C’mon, Buck,” Steve said. Edge of whining to it, ‘cos he was still a punk kid from Brooklyn on the inside, where it counted. “We’ve been through this.”

“Try it one more time,” Bucky said, his voice echoing pleasingly from the marble surfaces. “Maybe this one’ll stick.”

A long sigh.

“You’re building a media portfolio,” Steve said, sounding like he was reading off notecards Stark had had someone prepare for him. “So that the first result when you google James Barnes isn’t something involving explosions or Hydra or whatever else.”

‘Whatever else’, in this case, being death. Really a lot of death. Bucky held his breath for a second, let it go slow and steady, thought about gently lapping waves.

“You’re giving the rich folks a bit of a thrill,” Steve continued; he was ticking them off on his fingers, Bucky could just tell. “They get to tell the folks at the country club that they talked to the Winter Soldier, it makes their day.”

“And I care because…?”

“Because happy people are generous, Bucky, and the proceeds from this damned event are going to the children’s hospital. So get your ass out here and smile like you mean it.”

Fuck. Bucky shoved himself off the counter, took a second to straighten his tuxedo jacket, and bent to yank the tissues out from under the door, his arm whirring a little with the effort. He pulled the door open and couldn’t hold back the grin at the way Steve was slumped against the wall, looking like a kid in his dad’s best suit, arms folded and bottom lip sticking out a little ways.

“This is not what I want to be doing with my Saturday night,” Bucky informed him. “Don’t give me that look.”

“If I gotta, you gotta,” Steve told him. “And we all know who you’d rather be doing.”

It’d take a stronger man than Bucky to hold back the pink that flooded his cheeks at that, the squirm of his stomach, so he grabbed Steve’s elbow and yanked him to his feet, turning to head down the corridor to the ballroom Tony had – rented? Bought?

Entering the room, his eyes automatically scanned the crowd, and a year ago – hell, four months – it’d be exits he was checking out, vulnerabilities, shelter. Now he was looking for blond hair, band-aids, the human embodiment of crumpled. His priorities had shifted, lately.

It took him a second to spot Clint, ‘cos right now only the blond hair applied. He felt his mouth drop open, feeling a little like he’d taken a shield strike to the head, and considered finding that Richards guy to make sure this was the universe he was used to.

Clint was leaning against a wall with a glass of champagne held casually in two fingers, listening intently to something Sam was telling him. He had a half-smile on his face, waiting for a punch line, and he’d put something in his hair to give it a deliberate rumple instead of the usual haystack. He looked like someone had spent a couple of hours trying to make him look like he’d just rolled out of bed, and it was making Bucky’s mouth dry just looking at him.

The suit, too, that was – there were people, Natasha, say, who were just beautiful. You kinda became immune to it after a while, just accepted that she was flawless and moved your brain on. Clint wasn’t one of those people. It wasn’t that he wasn’t good looking, it was just that he had a kinda comfortable face, one that took you by surprise sometimes so a certain ducked-head smile made you feel like you’d been punched in the gut. Knocked sideways by the way he looked, by the way he made you feel. The tuxedo, the way it was tailored to him, was honestly making Bucky’s knees a little weak.

“Stay strong,” Steve said, enjoying the hell out of this. “Don’t get distracted from your mission.”

“Right,” Bucky said, taking a deep breath. “Okay. Dancing?”

“Dancing,” Steve said, the steel in his tone matching his jaw.

Bucky was just gonna take care not to look too long at Clint, that was all. He could manage that, right?

*

The song ended and Bucky kissed the back of the woman’s hand. He’d lost track of names about five dances ago, and the mist of perfume and meaningless small talk was starting to make him a little lightheaded. All he wanted to do was find Clint; he wanted to tuck his face into the crook of Clint’s neck and breathe him in for a second, get his balance back.

He saw Tony first, because Tony had a way of drawing the eye. He was talking with Clint, low and intent, and Bucky trod lightly because he was a curious guy.

“ – hate it,” Clint was saying, flat and uncompromising and rock-solid certain. “He doesn’t want this coming out.”

The choice of words, Bucky was pretty sure, was deliberate. The choice of words _hurt_. He – they hadn’t even talked about it, Clint hadn’t even mentioned that was something he’d be okay with. That it was something he’d –

“ – want?” Tony asked, and Clint’s little laugh that somehow held within it bitterness, and exhaustion, and resignation, was breaking Bucky’s heart.

“Can’t always get it, as a cooler man than me once said. It’s fine,” Clint said, every millimetre of him screaming that it was a lie. “I got what I need.”

Tony looked like he might respond but sighed instead, headed towards the dance floor.

“You didn’t ask,” Bucky said, when Clint turned and looked startled to catch his eye.

“…you to dance?” Clint asked, and hitched a sideways smile onto his face. “’cos that’d be subtle.”

“What I wanted,” Bucky said. He felt unmoored, like his anchor had been cut loose – how could he have understood Clint’s feelings so wrong?

“Didn’t need to,” Clint said, like he hadn’t ever expected anything else.

“You really fuckin’ did.” Bucky only half listened to Clint talking like usual, responded by rote to him running himself down – it was a work in progress, Bucky was fixing it, Bucky had thought he –

He’d thought he had all the time in the world to fix it.

The knowledge settled into place in his chest like it’d always been waiting to fit there. He was in this for the long haul, apparently, and the thought was nothing like he’d thought it would be.

“You’re lucky,” he said, careful, articulating the words because a first time should be something special, “I fuckin’ love you, idiot.”

Clint looked like he’d been smacked upside the head. Bucky couldn’t help grinning at his expression, his smile warming up every inch of him from the base of his spine to the tips of his fingers.

“Dance with me, Barton,” Bucky said, and held out his hand.


End file.
